


get you wet (I'm gonna make you sweat)

by blackorchids



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Authority Figures, Bottom Albus Severus Potter, Coach/Player Roleplay, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Bondage, M/M, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Quidditch, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Shower Sex, Slytherin Albus Severus Potter, Teacher/Student Roleplay, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-15 18:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackorchids/pseuds/blackorchids
Summary: Albus is running late for practice and the already-strict Coach Malfoy isn’t too happy.





	get you wet (I'm gonna make you sweat)

**Author's Note:**

> uh this was written for the October prompt over on DailyDeviant's InsaneJournal community, which was **authority figure roleplay**. Scorpius and Albus are actually the same age, they're just pretending.
> 
> title from LMFAO's song _Champagne Showers_
> 
> cross-posted on IJ [here](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/daily_deviant/758739.html/)

Malfoy pulls an emerald-encrusted golden pocket watch from a pocket in his robes and frowns when he realises he’s correct in assuming that Potter’s ungrateful brat is more than thirty minutes late.

He lets out a big, annoyed, heaving sigh and leans against the cold stone wall, arms crossed and frustrated look shaping the angle of his mouth as he waits.

It’s another ten minutes before the black-haired boy rushes into the room, cheeks flushed with exertion and chest heaving with his panting breaths. “I’m so sorry I’m late!” He manages between heaving breaths. He slings his bag over his shoulder and sets it atop the table and starts in on a well-practiced spiel of excuses.

“I don’t want to hear it, Potter,” Malfoy spits out impatiently, gesturing at the heap of abandoned quidditch leathers and the two brooms haphazardly leaning against the nearest wall. “I waited close to an hour, and if you think I don’t have better things to do than to give an entitled Potter brat _Quidditch lessons_, you’d be incorrect.”

“My sincerest apologies, Coach,” says the boy, closing his mouth against his elaborate story. He widens bright green eyes up at Malfoy and makes a good show of being repentant.

Or, he would, if the spark in his eye wasn’t so familiar. It takes little effort to put on wrist guards over loose tunics and quidditch pants, and Albus is finishing with lacing up his trousers when Malfoy speaks again.

“I think ladder drills,” Malfoy says, mouth twisting meanly. “For your impertinence.”

“And if that doesn’t help?” says the kid, biting his lip for show. “Sir?”

The brooms get knocked over when Malfoy shoves Albus up against the lockers, holding his wrists firm at either side of his narrow hips, and Malfoy bites bruising kisses against Albus’ lower lip and down his jawline.

“Is there any way I can make up my grevious tardiness, Coach Malfoy?” Albus asks when his mouth is freed. Malfoy steps away and bends over to grab the brooms, tossing one carelessly towards him.

“Drills, Potter,” Malfoy says curtly. “And I expect them to be perfect by now.”

They are, nearly, and Malfoy watches with some satisfaction as the middle Potter child works his way through a dozen ladder drills, twisting and climbing up into the sky, just as good as his quidditch-gifted siblings, at this point.

The last one gets a little muddled, though, and unflinching strictness has been successful with Albus in the past, so Malfoy flicks his wand and amplifies his shrill whistle, catching his flier’s attention immediately and gesturing for him to come down, expression flat.

Albus descends, wincing, because he already knows he’s about to get reamed out for getting sloppy on his last ladder trick.

“If we’re just here to waste time, Potter,” Malfoy says when Albus lands, graceful after weeks of practice. “Please do me the kindness of letting me know now, so I can stop coming.”

“I apologize, Coach Malfoy,” Albus tells him, head tilted low in deference.

“Begin again!”

They keep at it, and the more Albus works, the more tired he gets, fumbling and slurring his moves when they should be sharp and deliberate. Every time he messes up, Malfoy yells at him to start from the top once more, and the late afternoon sun is almost completely behind the treeline when Albus lands at Malfoy’s feet again, legs wobbly from exertion.

“I’m disappointed,” Malfoy tells him, and Albus gives him a petulant look that has Malfoy pushing him back towards the training tents, shoving him through the green fabric door-flap and towards the showers.

The water is hot and the tiles are slick with steam and Malfoy distracts his pupil with deep biting kisses, dragging his fingers down Albus’ muscled shoulders and strong forearms to grip at the leather vambraces.

Malfoy pushes Albus’ arms up up up until they’re circled around the showerhead pipe, and when he releases them and steps back, Albus’ eyes fly open as soon as he realises the hooks and straps tightening the leather have gotten hooked together, effectively keeping his arms suspended.

Albus rolls his shoulders a little and his mouth twists with a smirk for the briefest second before he regains his wide-eyed look.

“Were my drills not up to standards, Coach Malfoy?” he asks, leaning against the tile. He still opens up when Malfoy crowds him in to kiss him some more, and with his arms indisposed, it’s Malfoy’s job to get their quidditch pants unlaced and shoved down, the fabric heavy with water and clinging to muscled thighs.

“I must confess I am disappointed with the skills demonstrated today,” Malfoy continues, and he kicks at Albus’ ankles until he widens his stance, hot water sluicing down his body, hair slicked down with the constant shower stream, and Malfoy wastes no more time, dragging hands down Albus’ sides, gripping his hips tight and pulling them close together, their hardened cocks bumping against one another and causing their breath to hitch simultaneously.

Coach Malfoy slides one palm around to the small of Albus’ back, getting a firm grip on one toned arsecheek and Albus helps him out by bracing himself against the wall and giving him easier access. Malfoy’s fingertips graze Albus’ rim and he almost slips against the wet tile when he discovers that Albus is already loose and ready.

“I must confess there was a reason for my distraction, Coach Malfoy,” Albus says, expression flickering between guilelessness and cheeky, clearly trying to decide which angle to play this at.

Malfoy kisses him again, one hand gripping the side of Albus’ neck and the other hand tight on Albus’ thigh, pulling him up just enough that he can take half of his weight and push his cock through the thick ring of muscle and into Albus’ warm, tight heat, water beating down his back as he fucks up into Albus, pressing close against him.

Albus holds himself up by the pipes and braces his weight against the wall of the shower, eyelids half-mast as he stares at the look of concentration tightening Malfoy’s face, watching his cock slide in and out of Albus with an almost crazed intensity.

Albus shifts his hips slightly and his next breath comes out a shuddery groan, and then each stroke of Malfoy’s cock pushes against that spot that makes his pulse pound like a drum, and he can’t keep his head forward, has to toss his head back, twisting a little so the cool tile can be soothing against his too-hot cheek.

Malfoy can never resist an opportunity to bruise up Albus’ neck, either, and the sharp, insistent bite of his teeth on the thick cord of muscle under his jaw sends Albus over the edge, shuddering and groaning, arms flexing around the showerhead and back slipping precariously against the tiles.

Albus over the edge, Malfoy gets his second hand on the other thigh, adjusting Albus’ hips and pounding into him roughly, chasing his own release. Albus can tell when the wave crests because Malfoy’s teeth fix on one spot at the crux of neck and shoulder, biting down hard as he comes.

When his muscles relax, he slumps forward, kissing at the bruised spot on Albus’ neck, and Albus allows it for a few seconds, soaking up the happy haze and feeling floaty with it until his arms start to protest.

“Scorpius,” Albus says, wiggling and kicking at his sleepy boyfriend to get his attention. “Unhook me and turn off the water.”

“That’s Coach Malfoy to you,” says Scorpius, snuffling affectionately like an oversized pygmy puff.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually ship Scorbus lmao
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.rosalinesbenvolio.tumblr.com/)!!


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